Crazy
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Set early in season 2. Sam and Dean are drawn back to the asylum in Rockford by a vision, but is it lead on the demon, or a trap? This was my submission to the Brotherhood 2 fanzine last year. Rated T. Edited into 2 chapters, for ease of reading.
1. Chapter 1

_Special thanks to K Hanna Korossy and geminigrl11 for their editing. I own nothing. Reviews craved. _

_Edit- I broke this into two chapters, so it wouldn't be so daunting to read in one sitting. I've changed none of the content. Thanks!_

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Crazy**

ROCKFORD, 10 MILES

Sam stared glumly at the green traffic sign from his seat in the diner's window. Of all the places they'd hunted in, all the places they'd been sent or drawn to, this was the last one he'd ever wanted to see again.

Besides the fact he and his brother had almost been killed here ---at Sam's own hand, no less --- it was also a place, an event, that had driven an emotional wedge between them. A wedge that had led to Dean almost being sacrificed to a pagan god, and Sam almost hopping on a bus with a demon in disguise.

He and Dean had survived, of course, and the emotional scars had healed after a while. But, like any wounds, they weren't something he wanted to reopen. So, this town was definitely high on Sam's shit list, right after Palo Alto and the hospital where John Winchester died.

He was still staring at the sign when Dean returned, looking triumphant and carrying a glass Heinz bottle.

"Geez, what a guy's gotta go through to get a bottle of ketchup around here…" Dean griped, drowning his French fries in the red condiment and adding a considerable amount to his cheeseburger, before plopping the bottle down between them.

Sam didn't reply.

"Sam? Sammy? …Earth to Sammy, come in, Sammy…."

"I'm here," Sam said quietly, not turning from the window.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Dean crane his neck and follow his gaze. "Sam…look. I know this isn't your favorite place in the world. Trust me, it isn't mine, either. But it was your weirdo vision that brought us back here. It's not like we have a choice. We need to be here to find or stop…whatever you saw."

Sam finally turned and met his older sibling's concerned eyes. "I know. But I told you already, all the vision told me was where something was happening, nothing specific. So stop acting like I'm hiding something. I'm not."

Dean took a bite of his dinner. "I didn't say you were."

"I heard it in your voice."

"Then you're hearing things, little brother, 'cause I believe you. I just don't like this cryptic dream crap. Feels like we're being _lured_ here."

"Lured by _whom_?"

"'Whom?'" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Only one thing I can think of would want to lure you somewhere, Webster."

"The yellow-eyed demon," Sam said. It wasn't a question.

"You said it yourself, he's been connected to all of your visions in some way or another."

The thought renewed the chill that had been working its way through Sam's bones. He'd been thinking that during the entire ride there. The visions had drawn them to various places before, and it usually didn't end well. Meg's trap in Chicago sprang to mind. Thus far, his visions had helped them _stop_ the demon's plans, but Sam couldn't trust that to always be the case. If the visions were tied to the demon, it made sense to him the demon might be able to use them against him. According to the tapes from that psychiatrist in Lafayette, the demon had tired to manipulate Scott Carey through his dreams. What if it was now manipulating Sam through his visions? The fact that Dean seemed to be thinking it too drove a spike of fear through Sam's gut.

He suddenly lost his appetite, looking down at his half-eaten grilled cheese sandwich in disgust.

"Oh, no," Dean warned, "You're eating. This is the only food you've had all day."

Sam raised his head, a smirk creasing his mouth, and was about to retort when the waitress came by with fresh coffee.

"Refill, sir?"

Sam nodded and handed her the mug.

"That's your fourth cup since we got here," Dean said, shaking his head. "You're going to be up all night."

Sam's smirk turned into a laugh. "Cluck, cluck, cluck, Dean." He got a confused frown in return, so he added, "You're being a mother hen."

Dean snorted. "Better that than letting you starve yourself to death. Now eat."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Sam watched Dean covertly, wondering if he would ever be able to share a meal—or do anything, really—with his brother without having to discuss demons, death, and destiny. He doubted it.

"You're doing it again."

Sam startled out of his musings and struggled to recover. "Huh, what?"

"Staring at me like you're trying to memorize my face. You've been doing it for weeks."

He quickly moved his eyes back to his sandwich, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Sammy. Just knock it off. We're gonna make it through this. Both of us."

As much as he wanted to trust Dean's words, Sam just couldn't bring himself to believe them. Dean seemed so certain. Sam envied him for his confidence, even if he no longer shared it. The demon was too much for them. They'd found nothing worth pursuing that was capable of even _hurting_ it, let alone _killing_ it. Their one sure chance had vanished with the Colt. And maybe with Dad.

Sam was about to respond when he suddenly yawned.

Dean arched his eyebrows in surprise and then laughed. "Yeah, I'm tired of these chick-flick moments, too."

Sam laughed back, but then stifled another yawn, "Oh, man. I don't know what it is. All of a sudden I'm just so _tired_…."

"Maybe because you only slept about twenty minutes last night. That vision hit you pretty hard."

"I guess. I _have_ been zoning out a lot today," he agreed. His shoulders drooped, and Sam almost dropped his head in his plate when another wave of exhaustion hit him. Dean looked alarmed this time.

"You okay?" he asked, rising from the booth and placing his hand on Sam's forehead. "There's no fever."

Sam rested his head in his hands. "Jesus, I can't even keep my eyes open. I can't remember ever being this sleepy…."

Dean's frown grew. "Well, better safe than sorry. We'll find a hotel and we can crash before we start looking around town. Can you make it to the car? I need to pay. And I don't want to have to carry your heavy ass out of here."

Sam smiled. For Dean, that statement was practically a flood of concern. He nodded, pushing himself up on his arms and doing his best not to sway. _Man…this is weird_.

Dean reached a hand out to steady him. When he seemed satisfied Sam wasn't going to topple, he rushed over to the counter to pay. Sam grabbed his jacket and grasped the edge of the booth to prevent a fall. Slowly, he made his way out to the car and just managed to get the door open before collapsing into the passenger seat with a sigh. It was different than a normal crash after not sleeping. He'd done that plenty of times. This was worse. It was like his body was working against him. Maybe he was getting sick.

He must have zoned out again, since he jumped when Dean opened the door and plopped into the driver's seat with that all-too-familiar look of concern on his face. To Sam's eyes, Dean seemed to have aged faster since their dad's death. He worried that whenever they ended this ordeal, Dean might not have any life of his own left to live.

A hand on his shoulder brought his mind back to the moment.

"Sammy?"

"I think…maybe I'm comin' down with something, Dean."

Dean grunted, "Great. The timing couldn't be worse." After a pause, he added, "You wanna back off this job until we know for sure if this---"

"No. Come on, Dean. The vision didn't show much, but it did tell us that whatever's going to happen is happening tomorrow."

Dean appeared to wrestle with that for a moment, then shook his head. "Fine...we'll stick around. But you're gonna sleep first, all right?"

Sam just nodded, fighting the urge to doze off again.

------------

By the time they found a hotel closer to town, Sam's world was spinning. Dean helped him into the room, not letting go after Sam almost bashed his head on the car door getting out. He settled Sam face down on the bed farthest from the door, and slid the trashcan over in case he got sick.

Sam mumbled a thank-you and started to drift in and out while Dean unpacked his bag and placed the weapons in their pre-planned places around the room. He listened to Dean move about, then head for the other bed, but couldn't summon the strength to raise his eyelids and watch.

He heard Dean yank the covers back and move the pillow, and yelp in pain. The sound jerked Sam out of his stupor, a minor adrenaline surge helping him finally reopen his eyes. Dean was grasping his right hand.

"Dean?"

"Ah, crap…dammit!"

"What happened?"

Dean groaned in pain and agitation. "I…just cut myself on my knife. Got blood on the sheets."

"Told you-u to find a s-sheath for that th-thing…," Sam slurred.

"Nah, I'll be okay. It's just a scratch. Of course, now there's blood under my pillow…."

Whatever else Dean was saying, Sam couldn't hear. His sight and his hearing were tunneling.

_Dean…I think something's wrong…._

He tried to say it, but his voice no longer functioned. His last sight was Dean coming out of the bathroom, wrapping a bandage around his finger.

Then the world went black.

------------

"_Hey!" _

"_Hey! Let me out of here!"_

_Dean hurled himself against the door again. He rebounded off it painfully, clutching his shoulder. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to shove it open, but the door wasn't budging, He decided to switch tactics._

_He braced himself against the opposite wall of the small closet he was stuck in and kicked at the door with all his might. The door flexed under the assault, and Dean grinned, anticipating triumph._

_Without warning, two large men opened the door and caught Dean as he tried to rush them. A quick taser to the stomach, and Dean was down._

_The world shifted. Without warning, Dean was pinned to the ceiling, struggling like he was being held by something Sam couldn't see._

Help me.

_Dean wasn't speaking, but Sam could hear the words clearly in his head._

_Before he could do or say anything else, a pool of blood appeared on his brother's shirt, across his abdomen. He was still begging silently for help when flames consumed him._

Sam bolted upright, panting and sweating. He looked over to the bed next to his, but it was empty. Frantically, he spun to examine the room. The light from the bathroom glowed through the cracks of the door. He breathed a silent sigh of relief. _Dean's okay_. _It was only a dream_.

He settled back onto the bed, lying on his side, shivering slightly in the dream's wake. He studiously avoided looking at the ceiling. Months of nightmares after Jess had drilled that practice into him.

A dream or a vision? That was the question. A vision had led them back to Rockford. Dean believed the demon was involved in something in the vicinity. Now that they were here, Sam was dreaming about Dean in trouble—and dying—just like Jess and his mother.

Sam was about to call out for Dean when the bathroom door opened. He was rubbing his forehead, trying to soothe the odd buzzing in his skull, and didn't look up to watch Dean come out.

"Oh, Sam…you're finally awake. I was worried about you."

The sound of Jessica's voice took a second to register. When it did, Sam shot out of the bed, all memory of his exhaustion and foreboding dreams forgotten.

There, standing innocently in a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of shorts, was Jessica Moore.

Sam stood open-mouthed for a moment, unable to speak or move. His girlfriend was standing in his motel room and talking to him.

His very much _deceased_ girlfriend was standing in his motel room and talking to him.

He wouldn't have thought a professional hunter of all things supernatural would be as stunned or petrified as he was in that moment.

"Je—_Jessica_?"

She seemed confused by his reaction. She frowned, blinking for a moment, before reaching her hand out toward him.

"Sam? Honey, what's wrong? Did you have another dream?"

Sam backed away, the initial shock wearing off and being replaced by anger. Something had obviously taken Jessica's form, and he was furious. He moved back, heading for one of the hidden handguns, but he kept his eyes on the…whatever it was that was impersonating his lost love.

"What are you?!"

"What am--- Sam. It's me. It's Jessica. What's wrong?"

Sam shook his head. "Liar! Where's Dean?"

She seemed uncertain. "Dean?"

He reached back behind the nightstand, looking for the hidden 9mm. His hand grasped only air. Startled, he tore his eyes off "Jess" and searched behind the furniture. Nothing. Glancing around the room, it finally registered that none of their possessions were present. No duffels. No laptop.

No brother.

_What the--- Uh-oh_.

This was starting to look bad. First a vision led them here, then he got hit with a wave of exhaustion before passing out. He woke up and Dean was gone, along with all their weapons and hardware…and now something was standing in their room, looking like Jessica. _What the hell is going on?_

"Sam…calm down, okay? Let me explain."

"No. Where. Is. Dean?"

Jess…or rather the Jess imposter…sank onto the bed, her eyes downcast. "Sam," she intoned sadly, "we go through this every time. Dean's gone."

"_Gone?_ What do you mean, gone?"

"Jess" smiled sympathetically. "He's dead, Sam."

_No_….

Her next words cut through him even more.

"He's been dead for over a year."

_What?_

"You really don't remember, do you? I don't understand, the doctors said the new medication was working."

Before he could respond to the insanity he was hearing, Sam was hit with a full-power vision.

_Dean was pressed flat against the ceiling, stomach bloody, mouthing two heart-wrenching words._

Help me.

_Then flames consumed him._

The vision ended, and was replaced with a skull-rending pain. Sam rammed the nightstand hard as he jerked away from the horrible images in the vision.

"No," he choked out. No, it wasn't possible. This wasn't real. It was a trick. It had to be. "It's not possible…."

"Jess" cautiously approached him. "Sam…try to calm down. It will come back to you. It always does."

Sam glared at her, putting his hands up to warn her from getting any closer. He stepped back and stumbled, landing hard on the other bed. Dean's bed.

"You're lying. Tell me who you are. Tell me what you want."

She stepped forward, hands out in a calming gesture, and knelt in front of him, just out of arm's reach, "All right. It's been a while since you've had an episode this bad, but…okay. I'm Jessica Moore. Your fiancée---"

"I know who you look like!" Sam interrupted angrily. He was getting tired of this sick game.

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "We met at Stanford. You proposed to me during our senior year. About the same time, you reconciled with your brother Dean."

He snorted derisively. He was well aware of how his last undergrad year at Stanford had gone. But the image of Dean on the ceiling plagued him. Everything about the image was the same as it had been with Jessica, only Dean was taking her place. Sam didn't quite know how to take that. He tuned back in to what the…thing…in front of him was saying.

"…he came out to talk about the wedding. He stayed behind at our place while we were at dinner with some friends, and there was a fire in the building. He didn't get out in time."

Sam stared hard at the creature in front of him. _It's a good actor_. But not good enough.

Apparently, his mood didn't go unnoticed. "I can see you still don't believe me. It's okay, Sam. We've had to do this before. God, I don't know how many times now…. But, fine. You don't believe me." She pointed to the nightstand. "There's your cell phone. Call Dean's number."

Sam glanced at the phone with suspicion. He didn't trust this situation…but at least calling the number might lead him to his brother's whereabouts. He picked up the phone but kept his eyes on "Jess" the entire time. He clicked down to speed-dial from memory. Four clicks, hit send.

"_The cellular number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service. Please try your call again_."

Sam blinked. _Disconnected?_ Dean always kept their phones up-to-date. And supernatural creatures such as ghosts and demons had lots of ways to fool people using phones and electronics. The experience in the asylum, when he'd been lured to the basement by a faked phone call from Dean, was evidence enough of that. Sam tried the number again but got the same results. Clicking his phone off, he looked at "Jess" warily. She didn't seem bothered by his suspicions.

"Go ahead, check the car. Check around the room for the guns. I won't stop you," she said with a note of weariness.

He got off the bed, moving past her and trying to keep his distance. He quickly searched the room but found no trace of the weapons he'd watched and heard Dean place the night before. No handguns. No shotguns. No lines of salt. No holy water. Nothing.

Even Dad's journal was missing.

Sam grabbed the car keys and stepped out into the parking lot. The Impala rested right where Dean had parked it the night before. It was still dark out, so Sam looked in through the windows using the streetlights. He found nothing out of the ordinary, just some papers and a few pieces of trash that hadn't been thrown away strewn across the back seat. He opened the trunk and searched where the weapons were. Where they were _supposed_ to be, anyway. The trunk was empty save for the spare tire.

_What the hell is going on?_

Sam looked back at the door. He wanted nothing more than to jump in the car and go searching for Dean, but he had no idea where to start. His only clue was sitting in the motel room. Wearing the face of the woman he loved. Just looking at her scrambled his thoughts, which he supposed was why she- -it- -had decided to look like Jessica in the first place.

The throbbing behind his eyes from the visions wasn't helping much, either.

Sam had taken only a step back toward the motel door when the throbbing erupted into another vision.

_Dean was locked in what appeared to be a closet. He was ramming and kicking a locked door. _

_Finally, it opened, and Dean launched himself at two men. He knocked one of them unconscious and turned the downed man's gun on the other. _

As Dean fired the gun, Sam came back to reality. He clutched the rear fender of the Impala, falling halfway to the ground before regaining control of his legs. He was panting, exhausted from the rapid-fire visions that were plaguing him. He stayed put a few more seconds before steeling himself and walking slowly back into the room.

She was still on the edge of the bed, looking at him sadly. Seeing her again in the flesh like this, even if she was a shapeshifter or some kind of illusion, made Sam's heart rate speed up. He clamped down on his reeling emotions. _This isn't Jess_.

"What's going on? Who are you?" he demanded, closing the door.

"Jess" took a deep breath. "When we got back from dinner that night, the place was just a…there was fire everywhere. You realized Dean was still inside, and…you just lost it. It took three of us to keep you from running into the building. You weren't the same after that."

He moved closer to the beds but stayed out of her reach. It was a fascinating tale…except it was fiction. _What's she playing at?_

"After a while, the nightmares and, well, the delusions were too much for you to cope with. You dropped out of school. We came here. My uncle knew a good psychiatrist---"

"Here? Rockford?" Sam interrupted.

"Yes. Doctor Ellicott…."

Sam balked at that. He had met Ellicott up close…or at least his angry spirit. He was definitely _not_ a "good psychiatrist."

Jess continued without taking notice of his reaction. "…diagnosed you with schizophrenia. It eventually got so bad that we had to commit you. You kept raving about being some sort of demon hunter, that you and your dad and brother chased ghosts. And you thought I was the one who died in the fire."

_Dad_. He listened for her to slip up, to try to tell him John Winchester was still alive. Then he'd know for sure she was lying. But she was way ahead of him.

"Your dad died a few months ago. Car crash. That only made it worse for you. You started talking about your destiny and becoming evil. You said that everyone you love dies sooner or later, and it was all part of some evil plan some thing had for you."

He cocked his head at her, perplexed. All the details were there but rearranged. The events of the last year and a half couldn't just be in his mind. It was impossible.

It wasn't that he hadn't wished a hundred times for his life to be a mere nightmare he could wake up from, except that he never wanted his brother to be _dead_. And what she was saying did sound at least somewhat preferable to being a pawn in some demonic war on Earth. It just couldn't be true.

Dean was alive. Sam knew it. The time he'd spent on the road with his elder sibling really happened. It was all real.

Wasn't it?

Jess must have seen the doubt on his face. She rose and stood in front of him, "Sammy…you're one of the most intelligent and logical people I know. What makes more sense to you? That your brother died and you had a mental breakdown? Or that you're a _demon hunter_ who has visions of people dying and some big part to play in a war? Which one is more likely, Sam?"

"I do have visions," he began, almost defiantly. "I just had one a few minutes ago. I saw Dean."

She sighed but not impatiently. "That wasn't a vision, Sam. It was a seizure. The doctors say sometimes you see things like that during them. Something to do with your condition. The new drugs were supposed to stop that."

Sam slowly shook his head. "No…no. I was with Dean last night. We were in that diner. I remember that."

"Honey, _we_ were in that diner last night. You were complaining about being dizzy. And I was trying to get you to eat."

"I got really tired, and we came back here…."

"That's right. Your pills make you sleepy. It came on too strong last night," she said, looking away. "I should have known something was wrong."

Sam shook his head, refusing to accept the story. "This can't be possible. This is some kind of sick game."

She sighed, exasperated this time. "Sam! Dammit…." She stopped and waved her hand, biting her lip. He recognized the motion. Jessica used to do that when she was frustrated and trying not to get angry. It was such a small gesture that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But Sam remembered it clearly. His growing kernel of doubt was joined by worry. The shapeshifters he had come in contact with had all been very good at copying someone physically, but the small gestures always eluded them.

That kind of flaw had been how Sam had known the shifter wasn't Dean in St. Louis. It was how Ronald Resnick had known Juan Morales hadn't robbed that bank in **Milwaukee**.

And shapeshifters usually needed their victims alive.

_Well, maybe she's_ not_ a shapeshifter…but then what?_

If this _wasn't_ a 'shifter pretending to be Jessica….

Sam's thoughts were cut off when she started speaking again. "Sam, we can talk to anyone you like. My parents, the doctor…anyone. I can prove that you're just sick. Okay?"

Sam reluctantly, numbly, nodded. He was having trouble countering her argument. It made sense, after all. Certainly more sense than the life he remembered had made the past two years. He thought of all the times he or Dean had talked about how weird their lives were…of how little their predicament had made sense. And he was still so groggy from the night before, head aching from his visions. It was all just too confusing.

She got up, promising to take him to anyone he asked to see in order to prove her story correct, and stepped into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

What if she was telling the truth? What if Dean was the one who'd died at Stanford?

Sam watched her disappear through the door. A cold knot of dread formed in his gut. What if she was right?

He moved back to Dean's bed. He remembered the previous night so well….

"_I…just cut myself on my knife. Got blood on the sheets…."_

Wait a minute. With a quick glance toward the closed bathroom door, Sam lifted the pillow and looked underneath. It took a few long, discomforting moments, but he found it.

A small tear in the sheet and a drop of red blood.

_Dean's blood_.

Where he'd cut himself just a few hours earlier.

Sam's knot of dread turned into anger. He'd doubted himself…his brother…and almost let that thing get away with it. The thing that dared wear Jessica's face.

He jumped up from the bed, intent on finding something to defend himself with. All the guns and knives were missing. Sam searched for something, anything, but found nothing. He patted himself down, feeling a hard lump in his right pocket. His pocket knife. The one Dad had given him when he was old enough to carry one.

He'd never been so grateful for falling asleep in his clothes. He prayed the creature in his room was vulnerable to blades.

Sam braced himself. He needed to find Dean, and "Jess" was his only source of information. He'd have to play it cool.

When the bathroom door opened, though, that plan flew out the window.

------------

Dean slowly regained consciousness. Everything hurt. He rubbed at the small burn mark on his stomach where his captors had tasered him during his earlier escape attempt. He wasn't sure how long ago that was. His watch had been taken along with everything else on his person.

Everything, he found, except for one very important thing. The three men who'd grabbed him had busted into the room just moments after Sam had fallen asleep. Or maybe _passed out _was a better description, now that Dean thought about it; Sam hadn't even moved when Dean was wrestled out of the room. He wasn't sure of the how, yet, but he was pretty sure Sam had been drugged somewhere along the way. _Probably in the diner_.

However the setup started, Dean had only just been getting ready for bed, and as luck would have it, hadn't removed his ankle sheath yet when the intruders entered. And they'd missed it when they'd searched him.

He removed the small but lethal blade from his boot and climbed back to his feet. Whatever was going on, it involved Sam, and Dean feared he'd been right about them being lured to Rockford.

But for what? Was the whole thing a trap just to nab Sam?

_If so, why not just kill me?_ he thought grimly.

What was worse, he'd recognized one of the men as Charlie Reynolds. Dean had met him, briefly, years earlier when he'd come through Illinois with John. The man was a hunter. Or had been. Rumor was he'd gone independent and was working as a bounty hunter, for both living bounties and not-so-living ones. If he'd heard about Sam and come to the same conclusion as Gordon Walker….

But since Sam had a vision…that meant the ex-hunter had to be working with….

_Shit_.

Dean took a few moments to gather his strength. He needed to get out of there. He eyed the knife in his hand. It was a special blade he'd found at Caleb's when they'd gone through his things after Meg had killed him. He and Pastor Jim had left a lot of useful tools behind. This was one of them. It was consecrated, pure silver, with a small inlay of rock salt along the sharp edge. So long as the salt didn't get wet, it was a potent weapon.

Dean never let it get wet.

He didn't know whether the two men outside the door were human or something else, but it didn't matter. It was becoming more and more clear that whoever or whatever they were, they were working for the yellow-eyed demon. And they had Sam. That was crossing the line.

The only light source was what was coming from beneath the door, but Dean could see, and feel, where his earlier attempt to escape had weakened the door. It wouldn't take much more to get it open. He proceeded quietly.

He placed the hilt of the knife between his teeth and braced his arms against the closet walls. He hoisted himself off the floor and kicked forward with both feet.

Two kicks were all it took. The door splintered and flew open. Dean dropped forward and lunged out, instantly assessing the situation. Two of the men who'd kidnapped him, neither of them Reynolds, were sitting at a rickety table, obviously unprepared for his appearance. The one nearest him reached for the taser on the table, but Dean got to him first.

Five minutes and a black eye later, Dean was out of the building. There was little inside it besides the room where his guards had stayed and the closet he'd been kept in. His only option was to return to the motel. With any luck, Sam would still be there. If he wasn't, then maybe he'd left some clue to his whereabouts. Dean carefully wiped his blade clean and placed it back in its sheath.

He needed transportation. Calling a taxi was out of the question since he didn't have his phone and didn't see any public phones nearby. He did see a beat-up sedan parked in front of the building, though. It was probably what they'd used to get him here.

With any luck, the keys would be in it, but that wasn't a requirement. It wouldn't take him long to hotwire the car.

------------

When "Jess" re-entered the room, Sam brought his knife up, keeping it between the two of them.

"Where is Dean?"

She seemed flabbergasted, "Sam, what's---?"

"You're good," he interrupted her coldly. "You almost had me convinced that it was all in my head. But you missed something. Dean's blood is on that sheet. He cut himself last night."

That seemed to bring her up short. She glanced from Sam to the bed and back. Then her whole demeanor changed like a switch had been flipped.

"Dammit. I told them to get rid of everything," she spat. Her voice had changed. It still sounded like his Jess, but an undercurrent of venom flowed through it. Her face had hardened into a fierce scowl.

Sam's anger grew when she didn't even try to deny the error. "Where is he?"

She turned back to him, her gaze as chilling as it was alien. "You know what, Sam? I've had about enough of you."

Her eyes changed to a fiery red glow, and Sam was slammed back against the wall by the door with enough force to knock the wind out of him. He gasped for breath as she sauntered toward him.

"You want the truth? Fine. Dean_ is_ dead. He died just last night, in fact." With that, she cast her eyes upward, causing Sam to follow her gaze.

_Oh, my God…._

The ceiling above the beds was charred black. There were scorch marks indicative of a raging hot fire. Another vision of Dean on the ceiling exploded in Sam's head, and he futilely tried to raise his hands, but something kept him pinned.

"Jess" smiled at him, all the warmth of earlier gone from her features. "Know what the best part is, Sam? _You_ were the one who did it."

He looked at her in shock. "What?"

"You had another burst of power," she explained, "like the time in Saginaw? You remember that little moment with the china cabinet, I'm sure."

"How do you know about that?"

"We keep tabs on people we're invested in, my dear. We know a lot about you."

_No. I couldn't have hurt Dean. NO!_

Bizarrely, while he'd feared the possibility of "going darkside" and hurting Dean, for months after learning what their Dad had told Dean in the hospital, Sam had almost come to grips with it. At least if it started to happen, he might have a chance to fight back…a chance to save Dean from getting hurt or worse.

But in his sleep? Hurting Dean _unconsciously_…killing him? Sam couldn't accept that.

He wouldn't.

"I can see the doubt in your eyes, Sammy," _Jess_ cooed, "but believe it. You should have seen his face. He thought you were having a nightmare and came over to check on you. The next thing he knows, he's flying up into the air and you're killing him. Just like you've been afraid of."

He struggled to resist her words. _She's lying. She lied before and she's lying now_. Sam choked down the doubt and fear and tried to focus on getting information. Like he was trained to do. "Who are you?"

She laughed, rubbing her palm affectionately along his jaw line, "I'm _Jessica_, babe. I know you haven't forgotten. We were very close."

"You're not Jessica," he spat. "She's dead."

"Oh, honey," she purred, moving in close and rubbing her leg along his, "how fragile the human mind is. I am Jessica. I always was. I found you when you ran off to school. Everything was on track until that pain-in-the-ass brother of yours found out about it."

Sam swallowed thickly, trying to ignore what her leg was doing. "What are you talking about?"

"I was sent to Stanford to keep an eye on you…make sure you turned out the way our mutual yellow-eyed friend wanted. I must admit, I thought I did a pretty good job of getting you to burn all the bridges with your family. But I underestimated Dean's influence over you."

She hooked her arms around his neck and leaned provocatively against his pinned body. "He found out and rushed to the scene, always the Big Hero. He exposed me."

Sam shook his head. "It can't be…I saw her die."

"Ah, yes…poor baby…see, that's the other part I _wasn't_ lying about. You really did have a psychotic break. Dean revealed me as a demon, and, oh, you felt _so_ betrayed. Your fragile little mind couldn't handle the idea you'd been a demon's bitch for more than a year and never knew it. You conjured up the notion that I died over your bed, just like Mommy. Dean's been humoring you all this time. I think he was afraid to set you straight. I can't imagine why…."

Sam stared hard at her but couldn't tell if she was lying this time or not. He felt that tightly coiled knot of fear again. She was enjoying his turmoil, though.

"I gotta say, darling, I was hurt. You found it easier to believe I was _murdered_ than to accept what I was. I really thought we had something."

He couldn't bring himself to speak. What she was saying wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Too much had already happened for him to deny it outright. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. It felt like his brain was buzzing. Just like earlier.

"Well," Jess continued, "at any rate, I'm supposed to bring you to our 'friend,' but I can't very well turn you over like _this_. You're damaged goods, Sam. We're going to have to fix you before you start your new life."

He blinked, not expecting that. "You let Anson be driven insane. And Scott Carey. Why am I any different?"

"Oh, Sam, you're much more important than_ them_. Besides, 'insane' is a relative term. He needs you healthy, and sane. We don't want to ruin his plans now, do we?"

As if on cue, two men entered the room. Sam recognized one of them but couldn't remember from where. That one stepped forward and jabbed some kind of needle into Sam's neck. Whatever was in it worked fast, and he was hit with the same dizziness he'd experienced the night before. As his world faded out, Sam felt the demon's hold leave him, and he crumpled bonelessly to the floor.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

_Special thanks to K Hanna Korossy and geminigrl11 for their editing. I own nothing. Reviews craved. _

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

**Chapter 2**

Just before dawn, Dean approached the motel cautiously. He had no idea how many people would be in the room with Sam. For that matter, he didn't know if Sam was still even in there. The lights in the room were on, but Dean saw no movement in the window.

He made his way quickly but stealthily across the parking lot, approaching the room from behind the Impala so the car's bulk would keep him mostly hidden from view as he got closer . No one, it seemed, was around to challenge his actions.

Dean drew his blade as he reached the door and edged up to take a closer look. It was cracked open, and no sound came from inside. Taking a chance, Dean shouldered the door all the way open and entered, knife at ready.

The room was empty. Even more disturbing, there was a large scorched patch of ceiling right above the beds. Ceilings and fire were hot-button issues with Winchesters. Dean's mind flashed through all kinds of reasons for it to be there, none of them good. What if the demon had decided it didn't want to bother with Sam anymore….

Dean banished such thoughts from his mind. For whatever reason, Sam was important to the demon. It could have killed Sammy any time if he was merely expendable.

Of course, that still left the scorch marks on the ceiling.

A quick search determined the room was abandoned. Dean did find his car keys and Sam's pocketknife and phone, but that was it.

He pocketed Sam's knife and headed out to the Impala. All of their weapons and supplies were gone. Even Dad's journal was gone. But Dean had a place to start.

He just hoped Charlie Reynolds was still at the same location he was when John Winchester had known him. Either way, Dean was going to find him.

------------

Sam floated toward consciousness. Whatever they were using on him packed a helluva punch. He stirred, and immediately found himself sitting against a cold wall, confined.

He forced his eyes open and peered into the gloom surrounding him. From what little he could see in the dim light, he was in a small room, not quite a large as the motel room they'd been in, with peeling paint and lots of water damage. There were no windows, and only one door. It appeared to be a cell.

The most troubling part, however, was the fact that he was wrapped in a straightjacket. Sam tried to move, but the jacket was too tight. He strained until it felt like his biceps would tear, then collapsed against the dank wall, exhausted. The drugs were still too strong in his system.

He panted for breath, trying to piece together the situation, but all he could think about was that Dean was gone, and those scorch marks on the ceiling. Terrifyingly, it was starting to seem plausible to him. Sam had been waiting for some indication his powers were going to go darkside, and it seemed as though the time had finally come. The only aspect that wasn't making sense to him was why the room hadn't burned the way the house in Lawrence and the apartment in Palo Alto had.

The fact that Dean seemed to be his victim…that was too much to wrap his brain around. Was Jessica lying to him again? Or had he really murdered his brother during a nightmare? Sam closed his eyes and prayed for the former.

The sound of the door unlocking and opening drew him back to alertness. Jessica walked in, wearing the same loose-fitting shirt and shorts she'd had on when he'd woken up to her in the motel. She glided across the floor and dropped to his level, straddling his waist with her legs.

"Good morning, lover."

He snarled at her, "Don't call me that."

She looked stricken. "Aw, don't be like that. We're going to be close again. Like we were."

"You're _not_ Jessica."

She ran her hands through his hair, grinning with more than a hint of superiority. "But I am. I always was. And now that you've taken care of your brother for us---"

"That's not true!"

Jess cupped his face in her hands. "It really _is_, Sam."

Another vision of Dean exploded in his mind. Dean pinned to the ceiling helplessly. Dean begging for help. Dean burning alive. Sam grit his teeth against the onslaught of pain that accompanied the images. It was ten times worse than the last few he had experienced. She released him and let him slide down the wall.

"He's ready," Sam heard her say, although she sounded as if she were in a tunnel, or under water.

He vaguely registered another person entering the room. It took a Herculean effort to raise his head and look at the newcomer.

It was Sanford Ellicott. Sam's mind was still reeling from the latest vision, but he was pretty certain what he was seeing was impossible.

"You're---You're dead…," he slurred.

"Don't worry, Samuel, we're going to make you all better," the doctor intoned pleasantly. Sam had a chilling flashback to the last time he saw this man and heard those words.

Sam felt a needle pierce the flesh of his right thigh.

------------

Charlie Reynolds's base of operations was an abandoned convenience store and gas station about forty-five miles outside of Rockford. The ex-hunter had carefully disguised it so that approaching from any angle but the rear would reveal nothing beyond an old, boarded-up gas station. Dean wasn't sure why no one had ever come along to try to buy the place, but his dad had suspected that Reynolds had connections among the local authorities, and they kept potential developers off his back.

Dean slipped silently in through the front door, placing the picked padlock down near the window and keeping an eye on the door to the back in case old Charlie was waiting for him.

He passed a makeshift work desk and racks full of weapons and hunting supplies that made the back of the Impala look amateurish. Dean drew his blade and advanced into the gloomy, dimly lit building.

Speaking of the Impala…. Just behind the desk were two large boxes, containing everything that was missing from the car and the motel room. Including the journal. Dean snarled quietly. Kidnapping and stealing from a fellow hunter, not to mention helping demons take Sam…Reynolds would be lucky if Dean allowed him to ever leave this shop again.

A muffled noise drew his attention toward the back room. He crept back toward the door, careful to watch behind him as he moved.

He nearly slipped in it. Near the door leading into the back, behind a stack of boxes, was a puddle of skin and goo.

_Holy crap, a shapeshifter!_ Dean pushed down his surprise and cleared his head. Reynolds, before going freelance, had been one of the best at hunting shapeshifters.

_Looks like one got the drop on him_….

Dean immediately switched tactics. Shapeshifters usually nested underground, and Reynolds's place had the ideal location. A trapdoor in the back led down into a secret storeroom. As if the dozens of guns and blades in this room weren't bad enough, the custom-built basement housed the really illegal stuff. Stuff John Winchester wouldn't even let Dean look at the last time they'd seen Reynolds face-to-face.

He headed back to the boxes that were holding his and Sam's belongings. A few seconds of rummaging got him what he wanted, the 9mm and a clip of silver bullets. Dean turned to head into the other room.

Reynolds stood in the doorway, staring at him in surprise. The surprise faded into a grim smile. "I told her she needed to kill you. But, she didn't listen."

Dean leveled the gun at the unarmed 'shifter, causing it to take a step back. _Must not have been expecting to see me_….

"I remember you, Dean. Well…Reynolds remembered you. Seems to me that you're a decent guy…for a hunter."

"Got a funny way of showing your admiration."

"Hey," it said, almost casually, "they helped me off Reynolds."

_Off Reynolds?_ So much for keeping the victims alive until the shapeshifter was finished with them.

"'They' who?" Dean asked.

"Let's just say a very persuasive group wanted to get to Sam, and wanted you out of the way for a while. They offered to help me get back at Reynolds, which I badly wanted. The price was helping them nab you and your brother. Not a bad deal. Not like I knew you or anything. It was business."

"Business, huh?" Dean scoffed. "Where's Sam?"

"Oh, no. I know this game, hunter. I tell you that, and then you shoot me."

"You don't tell me, and I'll definitely shoot you. Think about that."

The 'shifter considered him for a moment, obviously weighing its options. Dean knew he could kill it before it could retreat into the back room. He could tell that the 'shifter knew it too. They were stronger and sometimes faster than humans, but they couldn't outrun _bullets_.

"All right," it finally said, "I know where your brother is. If I tell you, will you let me live?"

"I promise," Dean replied evenly.

"Okay. She took him---"

"Who is '_she_'?" Dean asked sharply. He was rapidly losing his patience.

It blinked at him for a moment, as if it wasn't sure what to say. "There are things that I fear more than you, Winchester. I'm not saying any more than I have to."

Dean raised his eyebrows at that. He had a feeling he knew what it was referring to. "Go on. Where'd she take him?"

"An old hospital in town, Roosevelt Asylum. It's been abandoned for a long time."

_Roosevelt Asylum? Aw, man_. That was the last place he or Sam had wanted to visit on this trip. _The hits just keep on coming._ Dean brought his attention back to the 'shifter.

"All right. You promised. Can I go?"

Dean shrugged, lowering his gun and backing toward the door slowly. "I did promise."

The 'shifter visibly relaxed, sagging slightly against the doorframe behind it. Dean frowned and snapped his fingers.

"You know what? I just remembered. I pretty much only keep the promises I make to Sam."

Before the 'shifter could react, Dean raised the gun and fired twice…catching the creature in the heart and the head.

"That's for Sammy, and for taking our stuff," he said quietly, stepping closer. He put one more round into the body, just to be safe. "And that's for Charlie."

Dean dragged the two boxes of weaponry outside and heaved it into the backseat. He cast a wary glance back at the old gas station as he moved to the driver's side door. _Another place I won't visit again_. His list was getting pretty long.

------------

Sam couldn't remember where he was. The room seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. Worse, he couldn't remember why he was in that room or how he got there.

He gave up trying and closed his eyes, going back to counting the minutes as they passed. That had helped a little. He knew he'd been sitting there, confined to the straightjacket, for about four hours. He knew that someone, he couldn't remember who, entered the room every hour. He knew that about one minute after they entered, a sharp needle would bite into his right thigh. He knew that about two minutes after that, the burning sensation in his leg would grow unbearable. It usually broke his concentration for a little while. No more than about five minutes, though, by his estimate.

Counting had always been one of his strengths.

Sam also knew that about five minutes after the pain in his leg would stop, Jess would enter the room. He remembered Jess. She was the beautiful, blonde pre-med student he'd met in college and wanted to marry. Unfortunately, her visits were always interrupted. About one minute into them, he'd start seeing things. Some man he thought he knew, burning. It looked as if the man were pinned to the ceiling. But that couldn't be right. He wished he could remember the man's name.

It was almost time for her to enter now. Just a few more seconds.

There it was, the sound of the door unlatching and opening. Sam cracked his eyes open. Sure enough, those shapely legs he remembered were walking toward him. He felt hands grip his head, and he opened his eyes fully, meeting Jess's gaze. She was his lifeline in this place. Wherever he was.

"J-Jess?"

"How are you feeling, Tiger?"

"Weird. I can't remember anything…."

"That's fine. It's part of your treatment."

"Treatment?" Had they had this conversation before?

"Yes, Sam. Try to remember."

He did as he was told and immediately regretted it. When he tried to remember, he was struck with the images of the man burning.

_Help me_.

Who was it? Why couldn't he remember? It seemed like he should know the poor man.

The pain eased a bit. He felt Jess wiping tears from his face. Sam was ashamed, but the pain in his head was too much. He heard a small sob escape his lips.

"Are you all right, Sam?"

Jess's voice drew his attention. She could always focus his thoughts for him. He trusted her. After all, she was the only thing he could clearly remember.

"Jess, what's wrong with me?" he always asked her, but he couldn't remember if she ever answered.

She seemed to hesitate. "You're in a hospital, Sam. You're sick. But we're making you better."

"W-Why does it hurt so much?"

"It always hurts, baby, but we're going to teach you how to stop it from hurting."

"How?"

"Well, that has to do with your dreams. We'll talk about that later."

She wasn't making any sense. How could---?

A man he didn't recognize appeared in the doorway. Was it the doctor? No. He didn't seem the type. The man spoke to Jess urgently. "We can't get in touch with the others. We think Dean might have escaped."

Jess shushed the man angrily, but Sam was already processing the words.

_Dean? Dean…. Dean was_….

"My brother! Dean," he exclaimed. He chastised himself for the outburst. He must have sounded like an idiot.

But Jess wasn't paying attention to him; instead, she was glaring at the newcomer in the doorway. Why was she angry?

"W-Where's Dean? Jess, do you know where he is?"

"He's _dead_, Sam. We talked about this. Don't worry about that right now," she said soothingly. But Sam noticed her emphasis on the word "dead." Why did she sound so mad? Had Dean done something?

He stopped counting altogether. All his thoughts were focused on Dean, trying to hold on to the memory before it slipped away. Whatever the doctor kept injecting him with made thinking next to impossible. All he'd been able to manage for any length of time was the counting, but the memory of Dean was disrupting that now.

"Please, Jess…do you know where Dean is? It's important. I'm not sure why…but it's important."

"Sam, it's all in your mind. Dean's been gone for a long time. He's dead," she replied, a little more urgently.

It didn't make sense to him. Dean was his brother. Sam's thoughts clung to the idea of Dean like a drowning man to a life preserver. Dean wasn't dead. He'd know it. He was certain of that. "N-no. Why are you lying to me?"

Jess frowned and turned her glare back on the man in the hall. "Dammit! Go! Bring the gurney—I guess we're going to have to get more aggressive now."

More aggressive? Sam gazed up at her, trying to understand what she was saying. But his mind kept coming back to Dean.

"Listen to me, Sam. Dean is dead. You need to accept that. You'll never see him again."

He grew angry, which was odd. He was never angry with Jess. They always got along so well. But it was helping overcome the effects of the drug.

Why was she so adamant about Dean? She was wrong. Dean wasn't dead. Surely she knew that.

"No…no! Dean's alive, I know he is. Where is he?"

Two men appeared at the door. One he recognized from a few minutes earlier; the other was new.

Jess sighed. "Well, I guess we're going to have to take more drastic measures. You can be very annoying when you want to be, Sam." She signaled for the two at the door, who promptly came forward and hauled Sam roughly to his feet.

"What's--- What's going on?"

They grabbed his legs and heaved him onto a rickety gurney. Sam strained against them, but the straightjacket and the residual pain in his limbs made it impossible to fight back. He could offer little resistance as they strapped him down.

Jess reappeared at his side. "Relax, kid. We're just going to help you forget Dean. It won't hurt for long."

They rolled him down the decrepit hallway, ignoring him as he strained against the worn leather straps.

"Where are you taking me? Jess?" he asked apprehensively. He was beginning to think this wasn't Jess at all. She'd never seem so cold—so alien—to him before.

She didn't answer.

They entered a different room. There was a single, poorly padded dentist chair in the center of the room and debris everywhere around it. _This place is awfully dirty to be a hospital_….

The men again took hold of Sam and hauled him off the gurney and onto the uncomfortable chair. After attaching more straps, they went about bringing some kind of equipment over to the bedside. Sam could only watch helplessly as they strapped his head down and started attaching wires to pads along the thick leather strap. When they were done, they stepped out of the room, and the doctor who had been giving him the shots entered. He was carrying several of the syringes with him.

"Jess…."

She stepped up to the chair and stroked his hair, shushing him. "Calm down, Sam. This is going to make you forget, but you'll be better off for it. After this, we'll show you how to stop the pain, I promise."

He was anything but comforted by her words. He didn't _want_ to forget. He couldn't remember much of anything besides her and Dean and his name, anyway.

He heard the doctor speaking quietly to Jess; he didn't sound happy. Sam tried to focus on what they were saying.

"…it might damage him. We were told---"

"We were told to separate him from Dean. Besides, if it goes wrong, it goes wrong. He can possess a vegetable with abilities even easier than if he was all there," Jess hissed back.

"I don't think that's what he want---"

"We're not paying you to _think_. Now, get this over with."

Were they talking about him? Possessed? Possessed by _what_?

He was caught totally off guard when the doctor flipped the switch. He heard the hum of electricity, but had no time to react. His head suddenly felt like it was on fire. The pain was unbearable.

Sam clenched his teeth so hard that he tasted blood. The muscles in his upper body seized and pulled against the leather straps until his skin bruised through his clothing. For one terrifying moment, everything went blank…no sound, no vision, no thought. Then Sam came out of it with a gasp, almost as if he were coming up from underwater, his heart thumping loudly in his ears. His head was throbbing with what he was sure was the worst headache he'd ever had.

His vision swam, making him feel nauseated, but he could still see Jess staring at him. Why was she doing this? "…please…."

Jess ignored him and looked at the doctor. "One or two more and I think he'll be ready. But give him the drug again first."

He felt the now-familiar bite of a needle in his leg. The painful burning spread through his veins even faster this time, probably due to how hard his heart was pounding. The added agony was too much, and Sam started to pass out. He welcomed the oblivion that swallowed him.

Just as he began to fade away, he heard gunfire out in the hallway.

He faded back in sometime later. He had to force his eyes open. Everything hurt, and he could feel tears trickling down his face, but he couldn't bring himself to care. When his vision came into focus, Jess was gone, and a very worried-looking face greeted his.

"Next time, you need to read the warning labels on your visions, little brother."

The man's words were lighthearted, but the tone definitely wasn't. Sam lost consciousness again before he could bring himself to ask the man who he was or what he meant.

As he descended into darkness, one thought swirled after him.

_Dean_.

------------

Dean briefly looked his younger brother over, but found no obvious—or at least, no external—injuries. He used his knife to cut the leather restraints off Sam's ankles and waist, then removed the wired-up strap that held his head.

_Sons of bitches!_ His anger grew as the sight he had witnessed sank in. Jessica—or rather something that was _appearing_ as Sam's deceased girlfriend—standing over him with a man who at first glance had looked like Sanford Ellicott.

Not the first person Dean was looking forward to seeing in this place. Besides, it wasn't possible, he'd burned Ellicott's bones more than a year earlier.

As it turned out, when the bullets hit the good doctor, his face shifted to something resembling a plain clay sculpture of a face. There was no expression, no real substance to it. It was like a mannequin. Whatever the creature was, it only mimicked faces; it didn't actually take the form.

Dean didn't have much time to think about it, though. The two guards in the hallway had gone down easily when Dean charged in with two guns blazing. But the hail of bullets seemed to have only stunned the two in the room with Sam. The one that looked like Jessica was already stirring; he could see the reddish glow flickering behind her eyelids. Just to be safe, he holstered his first, now-empty gun, and pulled out a flask of holy water.

He dumped the water over "Jessica's" head. The creature released an echoing, unearthly scream and rolled away, grasping its steaming head in pain. Dean turned back and cut away the straightjacket that held Sam's arms.

"Sammy? You with me, man?" he asked urgently, feeling for a pulse. It was strong, but Sam was out for the count. Dean noticed about a half-dozen glass vials of some clear liquid and dropped a few into his pocket. He'd have to find out what they'd been giving Sam.

Seeing no other choice, he hoisted Sam over his shoulder into a fireman's carry and strode toward the open door. Sam was no lightweight, and his height was an even bigger burden, but adrenaline helped make up for a lot.

Dean heard one of the bad guys stirring behind him. A quick glance back revealed that the clay-faced one was trying to get up and was watching them. Dean didn't hesitate. He spared one hand to grab the third gun from his waistband and fired four more rounds into the thing. This time he aimed for the face. It went down again with a scream.

Moving into the hallway, Dean stepped in a puddle of yellowish-green blood that was pooling under one of the guards. He was gratified they weren't human after all. Not that it would have mattered. When he'd entered the asylum and heard Sam screaming---

He shook off the thought and sped down the hallway. It took a few long, tense moments to get Sam's long-limbed and broad-shouldered bulk into the passenger seat. Dean noticed the kid was shivering uncontrollably, so he spared another moment to grab a blanket from one of the boxes in the backseat. He bundled Sam up and raced around the car to get in.

Dean drove like a bat out of hell for two straight days. He switched directions three times and circled back twice to keep anyone, or anything, off his trail. Sam slept through it all. Dean periodically reached over to check for a pulse and tried to coax Sam into drinking something when he stopped for gas. It didn't work very well.

Sam didn't wake up, but he did move around a lot. Dean could tell something was hurting by the way he curled his limbs protectively around himself, but Sam had no visible injuries. Every few hours, he would seem to get close to waking up, but just start rambling about doctors and Jess and how long the treatments would last.

That one was the hardest for Dean, since it was invariably followed by a plea for the pain to stop. Dean couldn't stop what was only going on in Sam's brain, and none of his attempts to wake him up had gotten anything more than a few incoherent grunts and a blank stare through hooded eyes. Eventually, Dean gave up on trying to rouse him and let whatever was in those syringe vials run its course. All he could do was keep Sam warm.

He found Sam whimpered less when Dean moved him into a horizontal position on the seat, arms dangling under the blanket and his head on Dean's leg. He let him lie there, where he at least could hear Sam breathing. Sam seemed to respond to the warmth and wormed his way closer. Dean was reminded of when they were kids and Sam would curl up beside him when they shared a bed.

He considered heading for a hospital, but he couldn't trust anyone right now and wasn't about to voluntarily let himself be separated from Sammy. Not until the situation was a little more secure.

They ended up on the third floor of a cheap motel in downtown Dallas. One of those grimy, ask-no-questions types of places situated over a bar. The bar was looking very attractive to Dean right now, but it would have to wait.

Sam finally woke up as Dean returned to the car after checking them in. It helped a little, since he hadn't been looking forward to lugging Sam's six-foot-four-inch frame upstairs along with the bags. As it was, walking was about all Sam could do, and he collapsed back into unconsciousness as soon as they reached the room. Dean wondered if he had any idea what was going on.

Dropping Sam gently onto one of the beds, Dean tossed the bags onto the other one and rummaged for supplies. He locked the room down, running lines of salt along the door and windows and even around the beds. Using examples from the _Key of Solomon,_ he drew protective runes on the windows with a grease pencil. Then he draped a dream catcher over the headboard and sank onto the bed next to his unconscious brother.

Now that the excitement was over, Dean let his nerves get the best of him and didn't attempt to keep his hands from shaking. He opened his dad's journal and idly flipped through it, reading all the entries about shapeshifters. He found one about a 'shifter his Dad and Joshua had tracked in Atlanta. That one didn't keep its victims alive. That explained Reynolds's killer, but didn't help him much with anything else. All he could do was wait for Sam to wake up…and hope.

Dean didn't have to wait long. About five hours after settling in, he was watching television when he heard Sam moan in his sleep. Glancing down, he placed a hand over the younger man's forehead. His temperature was up but wasn't too bad. Sam responded to the contact, and his eyes blinked open.

Dean moved his hand off Sam's forehead and ran it back through his hair. Sam looked at him as if he thought Dean might disappear at any moment.

"You…are you…_Dean_? Dean…is that you?"

Dean smiled. It didn't quite seem appropriate, but he tried to look friendly. No need to put Sam on the defensive. "Long time, no see, bro."

Sam frowned, eyes flitting around to see the room. "Jess…?"

Dean crouched down so Sam wouldn't have to move in order to see him and spoke softly. "That wasn't her, Sam. That was just someone pretending."

Sam's gaze wandered until it latched on to the ceiling over the bed. Dean followed it, not sure what Sam was expecting to see. He suddenly remembered the burn marks in the motel in Rockford, and Sam's fearful stare started to make sense. Dean looked back down.

"Nothing's there, little brother, trust me. You just go back to sleep."

Sam did as he was told, for once. He mumbled as his eyelids drifted shut, "Told me…you were dead. Didn't believe…God, Dean, it _hurts_…."

Dean shushed him gently and brought the blankets up closer to his chin. Sam settled again a moment later. After a few minutes spent making sure he was asleep, Dean pulled out one of the vials he'd snagged at the asylum, then fished his cell phone out of this jacket. He scrolled down the menu and dialed.

"Bobby, it's Dean. Listen, I need you to do something for me…."

------------

They'd been holed up in Dallas for four days when the return call from Jefferson finally came.

"…but we think he'll be okay once the drug is completely out of his system."

Dean's nerves were calmed somewhat by the confidence in Jefferson's voice. He'd sent one of the drug vials he'd found to Bobby, who'd forwarded it to Jefferson so his medical contacts could take a look.

"Any clue what they were trying to do to him?" he asked. Sam was awake but still wasn't volunteering much. All Dean had found out was that "Jess" had tried to convince Sam that Dean was dead.

Jefferson sighed into the phone. "From what we've been able to find out, these drugs mainly just suppress memories. Kinda like forcing amnesia on someone. They can't remember much of anything. But it's very short-lived. I'd say that they would have to shoot him up at least every few hours, maybe more than that."

Dean grimaced. "Yeah, well…given how many needles and vials I found in that room, I'd say you were right."

"But, Dean, listen, even though this stuff is temporary, it packs a helluva punch. A few shots and Sam would be high as a kite, and _incredibly_ susceptible to suggestion. He's lucky they didn't induce some kind of psychosis."

Psychosis. Anson and Scott Carey sprung to the front of Dean's mind. They'd been driven insane, or close to it, by the yellow-eyed demon. It had turned Anson into a killer. Was that what they'd tried to do to Sam? Jefferson continued before he could ask another question.

"Dean…if this stuff works the way we're thinking it does, in the short term I'd guess they were trying to program him."

"Program? You mean, like brainwash? Mind control?"

"Yeah. You have any idea what they would do that for?"

_Yeah, to get _me_ out of the picture_, Dean thought grimly, _and to make Sam into something he's not_. But he couldn't take the conversation any further without telling Jefferson about Sam's abilities. There were still some of John's old friends who didn't know.

"No. I have no idea."

Jefferson hesitated as if he was going to probe further, but he didn't. Hunters were still a tight-lipped bunch, and Dean knew the older man respected and understood that.

"Well, just make sure he eats and sleeps. He should be okay in a week or two. Depends how much of this shit they pumped into him."

"You're sure the memory loss isn't permanent?"

"Yeah. It might take a while, but he should make a complete recovery."

"Thanks, Jefferson. I owe you one."

"I owe you _three_, so just take one off my tab," the man laughed, and terminated the call.

Dean slid his phone into his pocket and moved out of the shadowy alcove where he'd gone to take the call. He'd been watching Sam during the conversation. His brother was sitting in a corner booth across the room, nursing the bottle of water Dean had brought him when they arrived. No one else was in this side of the bar, most staying at the other end where the jukebox and the prettier waitresses were.

He was glad for the privacy. This was their first trip out in public since Sam had woken up, and the less contact they had with anyone else, the better.

Patsy Cline's "Crazy" floated lazily from the old jukebox. Not Dean's personal choice for music that night, but he tried to just tune it out. He stepped over to the bar and ordered a beer and another bottle of water.

Sam was staring miserably at the tabletop when Dean got back and slid onto the opposite bench. He knew Sam was still in pain: He could tell from the small creases around his eyes. During one of his less coherent moments right after his rescue, Sam had said something about "it" burning through his veins.

But his brother was proud, and Dean knew he would repress his discomfort whenever they were together. It wasn't healthy, but Sam had learned from the best. He placed the new water bottle and another bowl of pretzels in front of the downcast gaze.

"Here. You need to eat some more."

Sam didn't look up. "I asked for a beer."

Dean smiled. He often complained about it, but he knew that when his little brother bitched, it was a sign things were getting back to normal.

"No alcohol while that crap's still in your system. Water's better for you."

Sam grimaced but still didn't look up. "I'm not a child."

"Never said you were," Dean replied quietly. He wasn't going to fight with Sam tonight. He could tell the younger man was looking to vent, to lash out at someone. Anyone.

Sam sighed softly and reached for a pretzel. His appetite was improving, at least. Dean would have laughed had the situation been better. He'd never seen a pretzel eaten so slowly or methodically before. _Only Sammy_.

"I thought you…she told me you were dead. That I burned you on the ceiling," Sam said abruptly.

Dean looked up at him in surprise, but then simply shrugged. "You didn't."

It was pretty clear to him now. Given the content of some of Sam's ramblings since leaving Rockford and the burn marks on that hotel ceiling, Dean had pieced together what the demon had been doing. _She—it—was trying to convince Sam he'd killed me_.

Sooner or later, Dean planned on showing her just how unwise letting him live had been.

"How did you know what kind of ammo to use?" Sam blurted. The sudden and unrelated subject changes told Dean exactly how badly scrambled his brother's normally well-ordered mind was.

He played along. No need to point out the jump to Sam. "I didn't know. I loaded the clips with all of 'em. Holy water, iron rounds, silver, salt, regular. Figured I'd be firing enough that some of them would work. Turns out a few of those guys were immune to all of them…but I put enough lead into them to keep them down while I got you out."

Sam nodded, although Dean could tell his attention had wandered somewhere in there. He didn't take offense. At least Sam was talking.

"What was she?"

"You mean the thing playing Jessica?" Sam nodded. "I don't know. She had red eyes. I figure she was some kind of demon. She _wasn't_ Jess, I know that."

Sam looked up sharply at that, and Dean saw a spark of anger in those deep brown eyes. He could only imagine how offensive seeing his fiancée's face on a monster would have been to his brother. Dean could think of no greater insult to Sam.

The subject switched again when Sam turned his eyes back to the water bottle.

"When Andy used that mind control on you…did you feel a…a _buzzing_ in your head?"

Dean snorted. "It felt like my brain was being pulled out through my nose."

"But…anything else?"

He thought about it for a moment, trying to remember the details. "Yeah. There was a buzzing in the beginning. Like a hum or something. Why?"

Sam rubbed his forehead. "I kept feeling something like that. Whenever she was around. I was wondering if maybe she was trying to get into my mind. Might explain why I cracked so fast."

"Cracked? Sam, you didn't crack," Dean retorted, annoyed. "They drugged you. You couldn't help that."

Sam looked up again, with an expression so sad, so pleading, that it made Dean flinch. "_Dean_…is any of this _real_?"

It was the third or fourth time Sammy had done that since coming around. Seeing the anguish on his face was gut-wrenching. Dean could tell that whatever they had done to him had seriously messed with his head.

Dean didn't answer right away. He instead reached out and grasped Sam's hand in his own.

"_This_ is real, Sammy. _I'm_ real. And you're gonna be okay, little brother, I promise."

Sam held his gaze for a moment, but then his eyes went back down. He seemed to deflate a little. "Can we go back to the room, Dean? I'm so tired."

"Sure," Dean replied. He helped Sam out of the booth. Sam's coordination was shot to hell, and Dean had to guide him out by the elbow. Sam was limping, too; his right thigh was still sore from all the injections the "doctor" had given him. Dean had cleaned the entry marks but was afraid to give him anything for the pain. Sam would just have to fight through it until they knew it was safe to take some painkillers.

They'd barely survived this round with the demon and its minions. It had been way too close a call for Dean's comfort. He glanced at Sam, who had withdrawn again, and wondered grimly how many "close calls" they had left.

They'd found an elevator in the hotel lobby. It groaned and shuddered as it moved, and Dean was worried the cables would snap any minute, but it beat the stairs and was easier on Sam's wobbly legs. They entered it and started the slow, precarious journey up two floors. Sam sagged against the wall.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. Dean knew he was lying but said nothing. He watched Sam out of the corner of his eye.

"I wanted it to be true…I wanted all of this to be a delusion," Sam muttered.

Dean said nothing. He'd noticed these slips over the last couple of days. It was like Sam didn't know he was speaking his thoughts aloud. Responding would just send him back into his silent shell.

"…but I never wanted to see you die. She kept showing it to me over and over. I thought it was a vision, but it was _her_."

Sam suddenly turned to him, signaling another topic swing.

"What did Jefferson say?"

Dean glanced at him, trying hard not to notice how the pained lines around Sam's eyes were deeper now that he was standing up.

"He said you should be fine in a week or two."

"And _who_ is he again?"

Dean sighed but kept the weariness out of his voice when he answered. After all, the memory loss wasn't Sam's fault. "He's a hunter, like us. We can trust him. He said your memory will come back, too, just give it time."

Sam looked away, apparently satisfied with the answer, but the troubled look remained on his face. Dean felt compelled to ask if he was okay again. He hated seeing that look.

Sam beat him to it. "Dean…you're the one who…I mean…_Jess_ is the one who…who died, right? Not you. _This_ is real?"

Dean looked at him. His anger at the demons replaced with the sad knowledge that they'd screwed Sam up badly. He was morbidly surprised, actually. Trying to convince Sam that the love of his life was long-dead was even harder than the aftermath of her _actual_ death. Sam had to go through it all over again.

"Honestly? Sometimes I wish to God that it _wasn't_, Sammy. I wish none of this had ever happened to you."

The elevator opened but neither of them moved to leave. Sam stared at Dean for a moment before responding. Given everything he'd been through – was still going through – his words surprised Dean a little.

"I'm actually glad that this is the real one…the real…you know, reality, I guess."

"Why's that?"

Sam looked somber, eyes misting over slightly. "Because you're still alive in this one."

Dean was speechless for a moment, overcome by the simple statement. He panicked, and fell back to his more comfortable position. He summoned his bravado and smirked as he moved to help Sam off the elevator and into the hall. "That's beautiful, dude. We should sell that to Hallmark. 'So glad you're not dead' cards. They'd be all the rage."

Sam chuckled, an almost honest-to-God laugh. "Shut up, Dean."

It was music to Dean's ears.

------------

It was easier for now to keep the Jess appearance, especially since it facilitated getting a ride on a dark road at night. She glanced up at the sign through the windshield as the old pickup passed it.

NOW LEAVING ROCKFORD

"Your boyfriend doesn't know what he's missing, if you ask me. Ditching you like that? Tell me where to find him, and I'll kick his ass for you."

She looked over at the young college-age kid who'd so kindly offered her a ride, and noticed with some amusement that he wasn't hiding his physical reaction to her appearance all that well. She was amazed at how the simple act of hiking up her shorts could have such an effect.

"Yeah, he'll be sorry." She smiled back. The horny college boy actually _leered_ at her. She fought the urge to roll her eyes. It was a decidedly human reaction, and she'd be glad to get back to her natural form.

Human males were so pathetically easy. Even little Sammy had reacted to it when she'd rubbed up against him at the motel. She figured they'd have had a lot of fun if Dean hadn't ruined everything.

The thought of Dean Winchester made the skin on her neck crawl. It was still raw from where Dean had splashed the holy water on her.

She planned to skin that little bastard alive the next time they met.

She smiled again. "Can you pull off here? I need to make a call."

The kid frowned at her. "You sure? Cell phones don't get very good reception around here."

"Trust me," she purred, "I have a really good long-distance plan."

"Well, okay…."

The truck rolled to a stop, and she muttered a "thanks" to her helpful stranger. She waited until he smiled back before she sliced his throat open. She held up the golden chalice to his gushing neck and filled it halfway.

She stirred the blood with her finger and uttered a few words in a tongue no human knew anymore. The response came quickly.

"They escaped. I couldn't break Dean's influence over the boy," she said without preamble, although she had a feeling it was unnecessary.

She continued quickly while she could still muster the courage to speak her mind.

"If you'd let me kill the brother first, then I could have---"

"Yes. Yes. I ask forgiveness."

"No, the others are dead. Dean killed the ones we hired, and I finished Annorak myself before I left town."

The memory of the betrayed look on her old friend's smooth, clay-like features still amused her, but she buried her glee and listened for the response. The reply put her on the defensive again.

"I _know_ you didn't want the boy harmed, but it was the only way that I could---"

"Yes. Yes, I understand. I'll wait for you here."

She lowered the chalice and let it rest on the seat beside her. Her master didn't tolerate failure…an attitude she found hypocritical since he hadn't had much success with Sam Winchester either. But she was in no position to voice that opinion.

All that she could do now was wait…and meet her fate stoically.

END


End file.
